


Classics

by the_ragnarok



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Bad BDSM Etiquette, D/s, Dubious Consent, Humiliation, M/M, Mind Control, Overstimulation, Painful Sex, Sadism, Sex Toys, Unhealthy Relationships, dark!Harold, john has extremely painful sex of extremely dubious consent, mention of gunplay, none of this is realistic and thank fuck for that, not exactly but "mind control" gives the right feeling imo, sub sharing, that's it that's the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-21
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-22 08:55:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6073114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/5928049">Deal!verse</a> porn, but this time with dark!harold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Classics

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Appropriate](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5928049) by [Code16](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Code16/pseuds/Code16). 



> This will probably make more sense if you read the fic it's based on first. Otherwise - John has the power to make people do what he wants (kind of) by sexually satisfying them, and in this spinoff, Harold is 1) a lot more ruthless than your garden-variety Harold, 2) into very extreme, unhealthy domination. Tread cautiously!

If Harold had wanted to do something to John nobody else did, he would be at least a decade out of luck. Human ingenuity was pretty broad, but it had limits, and at the end of the day John was still somewhat constrained by physics.

"Nothing wrong with the classics," Harold said, fastening the cuffs to John's wrists. "Comfortable?"

What Harold did want from him was honesty. "They're a little too tight," John said.

"Perfect." Harold stroked his finger down John's face. "You will let me know if there is any circulation trouble."

John didn't answer. Harold didn't need him to.

~~

"Offer to Laurence," Harold said over the comms.

John's mouth tightened. Laurence was going to say no, he could feel it. He got to his feet anyway, opened his mouth.

"Wait," Harold said sharply, just before John could talk. "Modify your suggestion: ask him, not for the time of the meeting, but for access to his computer. I can take it from there."

A tension eased out of John. Laurence was already turning towards him, beginning to smile.

~~

Laurence wasn't too bad. John knew he'd heal before he made it back to the library.

"Another number," Harold said in his ear. "South side."

John didn't sigh. He flipped his turn signal and carefully adjusted his sitting position, taking mental inventory of his lube supply.

In the end, the lube question was moot. None of the number's former colleagues was willing to let him use it.

~~

John made his way into the library with slow steps, trying not to limp. Harold turned in his chair, his expression blank.

They had a routine, and the routine was that John asked every time he came back after a number. For the second time that day, he knew offering wouldn't work.

"Let me go to sleep," John said. 

Harold came close. "You can go." He kissed John's forehead. "Good night. I'll see you tomorrow."

John's shoulders stiffened. He wasn't sure why. He was tired enough that every movement took effort.

Harold noticed. He gave John a wry little smile. "Would you like to try again?"

He found himself wobbling towards Harold, heart thudding low and urgent. "Take me to where you're sleeping tonight," John said, and he could feel the offer taking this time: something Harold was reluctant to give, but not outright against.

~~

Harold's safe house that night was a penthouse apartment with picture windows and an infinity pool.

"You can use it tomorrow if you like," Harold said, noting the direction of John's glance. His mouth quirked up. "Though I don't have anything appropriate for you to wear swimming."

He took John's clothes off with neither haste nor dawdling, hanging them up with care. John waited for him to finish, then went for the bathroom: he knew what was coming, informed by experience as well as his gift.

First, there was examination. Harold wanted to know exactly how John had fared with today's number. When he looked at the still-healing reminders of the second number, John couldn't see his face, but he could imagine the dissatisfied twist of Harold's mouth well enough. 

"Why does it bother you?" John had the choice of keeping his thoughts private, but it made Harold happy when he chose to share them. 

"It's wasteful," Harold said, distaste evident in his voice. "Pointless violence. It's the last resort of the witless, you know."

"I do know." John smiled.

After he'd gotten cleaned up, Harold had John touch his toes and pushed two fingers into him, making John gasp.

"Does it hurt?" Harold asked.

"Yes." And John was compelled to add, "That's not why."

Harold stroked his back, rewarding an obedience that John didn't have a choice but to give him. "Hold yourself open."

John kept position as Harold moved away. He heard a liquid being poured, the clink of ice against a glass. A shuffle of fabric that was Harold sitting down and admiring him.

For about ten minutes, John held. Then, as his abused, tired muscles began to show the strain, he said, "It's getting difficult now."

The swish of ice cubes in a drink, and Harold said, "Stay as you are."

The gift didn't hold John in place. He had to do that himself. When the muscle spasm hit, he lost his balance, ending on his knees. "Sorry," he said, hoarse.

"No need to apologize." Harold sounded mildly unhappy, but not angry. "My timing was off; I thought you'd last another full ten minutes. Ah, well. Get on the bed." 

John lay with his face down, listening to the sounds of Harold undressing. He took his time, but John didn't mind. The bed was soft, the room was warm, and John didn't have anything better to do than wait.

Even knowing it meant pain would come soon, John couldn't help enjoying the first press of his skin against Harold's. Harold pressed kisses to John's nape, his shoulders. "Would you like me to make it quick," Harold said, "and let you sleep?"

John knew he wouldn't necessarily get what he asked; but on the flipside, he wouldn't be punished if Harold didn't like his answer. "Take your time," he said.

"Oh, I was planning to." Harold brushed his lips once more over the top of John's spine. "Though you may change your mind about wanting that soon enough."

That didn't seem likely to John. He knew himself and his own limits. The way Harold's palm curled around his shoulder was worth a little pain. A lot of pain, even. He didn't offer that opinion. 

He hissed when Harold pushed slick fingers inside him. He was still raw from before. Then Harold went deeper, twisted expertly, and John groaned and pushed himself down on the bed.

"Mr. Reese," Harold said, admonishing, and John stilled.

Harold spent a long time fingering John, drawing moans of pain and pleasure out of him. John hid his heated face against the sheet, closed his eyes when he found himself close to begging. 

Finally, he felt the blunt head of Harold's cock poised at his opening. "Tell me how much it hurts," Harold said, and slid inside.

"Not that much," John said. "Had a lot worse."

"Mm." Harold nipped his ear. "Is that a challenge?"

John shook. "No." The soft, "Please," that followed wasn't prompted by his gift.

Harold must have known that John chose to let out that _Please_. He nuzzled into John's hair and lovingly said, "Of course, it's not up to you, is it?" 

He didn't wait for an answer before fucking John in earnest.

Pain was different when Harold was the one dishing it out. He didn't do it out of carelessness, or sadism. Harold hurt John because it was a simple, effective proof that John was _his_. That John would go out and spread his legs for strangers because Harold told him to, then come home and spread them all over again for Harold himself.

"How many times," Harold said, "have you been fucked today?"

By _fucked_ , Harold meant anal penetration by any object larger than fingers. Harold found precise terminology important. "Six times. No, wait: seven." One of the second number's guys had wanted to see if John could take his rifle's entire barrel. John devoutly hoped the goddamned thing jammed when its owner really needed it.

"Seven times." Harold's breath hitched. "All of them painful, and not a single complaint. Do you realize how remarkable you are, John?"

John kept quiet, uncertain how to respond to this. He'd never been with anyone who could _think_ about his gift, what it meant. A lot of people liked to share their opinions about him, but mostly those had to do with how nice John looked in pain.

Harold set his teeth in the junction of John's neck and his shoulders, making him groan. He came with three more vicious thrusts of his hips. "Do you want to come?" he asked once his breathing had evened out.

"Yes." John took care to stay very still and not hump the bed.

"And yet," Harold said, "that's not what you asked for, tonight."

John shrugged. He didn't like asking for orgasms. It was better to wait until Harold wanted him to come, anyway.

He heard the sheets rustle, and then there was something at his opening again, colder than Harold's cock. "I'll take it out when you come," Harold said, and pushed it in.

John let out a pained yelp. The toy was brutally thick, stretching out his abused hole. Harold moved it steadily, angling it so that John's prostate got an occasional skimming brush and no more. It wasn't enough to make John come; it was too much to let him go completely soft.

Of course, Harold knew he couldn't come from this, and he didn't get off on setting John up to fail. "What do you need?" Harold asked.

That gave John pause. "Touch me?" he said. It was worth a shot.

In response, Harold ran his fingertips over John's back, his thighs. John shuddered. He knew Harold was being a smartass, taking John's nonspecific answer too literally, but it felt fucking fantastic.

"Really?" Harold murmured. He didn't stop caressing him, though. None of the places he touched were erogenous zones, but that didn't matter. All of John's erogenous zones knew pain better than pleasure, anyway. Hardly anyone John has ever offered to bothered touching him like this, like John's skin was a map they wanted to memorize by feel.

Still as he was, the softness of the sheets was excruciatingly tempting to thrust into. John didn't, closed his eyes and focused on the dildo moving in him, inescapable.

Climax was a distant phantom city on the horizon, and then Harold whispered, "You know you can, go on," and suddenly it was very close indeed. John's toes curled with the effort of keeping still, a soft moan escaping him; then Harold added, "For me," and John whimpered and came.

"Now clean up the mess you made," Harold said. That meant going for new sheets, because Harold didn't need John to get lint in his mouth; but first, it meant John rolling over and scooting down, lapping Harold's soft cock clean, because some acts were classics for a reason.


End file.
